Sunrise
by Apalapucian
Summary: "Tonight, all over the country, under the mantle of flickering lights and passing cars, if you strain your ears enough, there are a thousand different voices toasting to a boy called Neville Longbottom. To the boy who lived, they declare, and the waves of laughter crash all the way to dawn. Godric's Hollow is quiet; a folded corner on the map of the rejoicing wizarding world." AU.


**AN:** Prompt from anon on tumblr, _"AU where Lily miscarriages after an attack, therefore the prophecy can't be about them anymore, and they survive."_

* * *

He's seen blood. 'Course he has.

One time in third year Georgia Thomas took a bludger straight to the face, and James saw the blood flying behind her as she hurtled down. He saw even more of it when they reached the ground in the imminent stoppage of the game. It dripped from her nose, and she howled, grabbed at James's Quidditch robes for help. He didn't know what to do in those three short seconds it took the Quidditch ref to come over where they were. He just watched the blood gush, dazed; down her face, down her front. It gloved her hands in glistening scarlet, and James, reaching over to grip one of them in his desperation to help, to do anything, felt the slick warmth crawl over from palm to palm and coat his skin as well. He didn't always know, but that was when he found out for sure that blood couldn't possibly faze him, however much the amount he'd have to deal with.

Then came the full moons. It was just thick liquid, s'all. Red. You're made of it. Everyone is. No big deal.

But when they lost the child that night… it was different.

There was no screaming, there was no one close to help. In some ways it was the complete opposite of that Quidditch match with Thomas. There was a lot of time spent. Wasted. The fear was paralyzing. It's all a blur trying to remember it now, and sometimes he feels guilty for deliberately forgetting. He still dreams about it, though, and it's the worst when the hazy images come to focus: cold hands and moonlight and whispered shattered "James"es in Lily's most frightened voice.

He waited outside the hospital room and stared at the opposite wall for hours that night. Stark white. Glaring. He could still see the blood like some phantom blanket over everything. His hands shook bad, and he couldn't stop it. Sirius and Remus arrived shortly after, with bedheads and rushed words and faces just as pale, but there wasn't much they could do either. Peter never came. It mattered, for a moment, it made James angry, but he knew it was just some lame excuse to divert his rioting insides to something else. He had trouble breathing. He felt Remus's concerned eyes checking on him every two minutes, and Sirius's hand never left his arm.

They waited. But when their five-hour forever was over and he finally got to hold her hand, neither he nor Lily was patched up like Georgia Thomas had been. The night never quite ended. At least not for a while.

* * *

Today her hand is warm, and the sky is heavy with grief. James doesn't mind; he thinks a pleasant weather would have been insulting. They stand on the third row with Sirius and Remus, with the little crowd that was what was left of the Order of the Phoenix.

Voldemort is dead. A one-year old baby lives. God knows why that is, how things turned out the way they did, but today is no time for anyone to figure it out.

The preacher starts speaking, little old man with white wispy hair, and his generic speech halts the stages of war just long enough to let the heroes' souls cross worlds.

Lily reaches over to lace her fingers with his. He glances at her, squeezing her shaking hand once. Her breaths come in long shuddering sighs. She won't look at him.

The coffins are lowered to the ground, two white boxes where their friends lie, forever asleep. James's heart breaks, and it's the worst fucking headache trying to hold back the tears. He doesn't even know why he's trying so hard. Maybe because he's guilty. Maybe because despite everything, he still can't stop thinking about Harry. Their Harry, his Harry James, how different things would have been if maybe…

God. Is this horrible? Thinking about what if's while Frank and Alice are laid to rest? It is. It's horrible. And yet he can't help it. Fuck the universe, really.

Lily buries her head on his shoulder. He can feel her tears soak his shirt, can feel her shoulders shudder against him, can sense the uncontrollable stream of what if's of her own. He holds her close. "I'm here," he tells her, again and again. _I understand._ "I'm here, it's okay…"

Somewhere, a baby is crying in Augusta Longbottom's arms, the lightning scar on his forehead still red and raw.

* * *

Tonight, all over the country, under the mantle of flickering lights and passing cars, if you strain your ears enough, there are a thousand different voices toasting to a boy called Neville Longbottom. To the boy who lived, they declare, and the waves of laughter crash all the way to dawn.

Godric's Hollow is quiet; a folded corner on the map of the rejoicing wizarding world.

There is a bottle of firewhiskey on the coffee table, almost empty. James, Lily, Sirius, and Remus are scattered in the vicinity—on the couch, by the fireplace, by the stairs—and they all seem content merely drinking in each other's presence. There is nothing different about them, really, just another group of magical folk gathering together tonight, huddled over alcohol and talking in hushed voices.

It's when Sirius breaks the silence that they turn their own page of the tale. He gets to his feet, raises his glass, a small sad smile playing on his lips. "To Harry James Potter," he says softly, reverently, the first among the only four in the world to remember.

Remus walks over to them from the stairs and clinks his glass with Sirius's. "To Harry," he nods, and then turns expectantly to the Potters on the couch.

James looks at Lily. Her eyes are glistening, more gold than green, and he still recognizes the sorrow in there. But the fire in them no longer comes from the hearth. It's coming from her now. It's coming from hope.

He takes her hand and stands, pulling her up with him. He doesn't stop the tears this time.

"To Harry," he says, holding up his own glass. The firewhiskey catches the dancing flames. Lily doesn't speak, but she nods and reaches up to kiss his cheek.

She smiles at him, the first genuine one in a while, and the sun breaks the horizon.


End file.
